CHAPTER SEVEN

THEY had been so long silent in the car which brought
them from Rynwyk that, when they reached the gate of
the cottage, they seemed to be locked in silence.

While the car had been moving, and the white streak of
road had continuously widened and engulfed them, and
elms, sweeping up from the miniatures of distance, had
continuously stretched at the sky and tossed their heads
and disappeared; while he could see, whenever he looked
down, her hand curled over the edge of the leather cushions,
gripping them, vibrating, lying there always as if it would
never be lifted, Lewis had been reposed in time's little
suspense, which is speed—speed that says: you may rest
until I have done with you; then take up life again. They
had sat side by side without speaking and without know-
ledge that they were not speaking.

When the car stopped, the trees became still, peering
do\vn, the road stiffened and the birds asked quick, fluting
questions of the air. The air,- xvhich had been a rushing
wind that swept thought backward like the long hair of a
runner, lapped gently on forehead and wrist and cheek,
and waited* She stirred in her place; her hand no longer
interrupted the high light on the polished leather, which
lay empty, awaiting another passenger. She alighted and
stood and waited; the driver turned his head to look at
them and at the sky; and silence welled up out of their long
silences and imprisoned them.

She stood near by while the chink of money handed to
the driver mingled with the lisp of the hedgerow; and
Lewis was awkward with the coins, it seeming strange to

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